Genesis of Evil (13 page)

Ford stood behind Gerhart and looked out into the midmorning sunlight. He was wondering if he should walk across the street for a doughnut when the old vehicle pulled up in front of the station. He raised his eyebrows, smiled slightly and turned around.

Hey, Chief,” he said, “I think your exterminator is here.”

Gerhart spun his chair around and looked out the window. Parked at the curb was a lime-green 1959 Cadillac hearse with tailfins that appeared to be at least a foot tall. A sandy-haired young man in his late twenties or early thirties climbed from the vehicle. He wore aviator sunglasses, jeans, cowboy boots and an Australian bush hat that looked as if it had been towed behind the hearse on the end of a rope. As the policemen watched, the man snapped the hat from his head onto the seat of the vehicle, retrieved a T-shirt from somewhere inside and pulled it over his head. He looked around for a moment, decided where he wanted to go and set off with a lazy gait toward the front door of the police station. Christine Peters, Office Watchdog, was apparently not at her desk. Two minutes later the young man stuck his head into Gerhart’s office and grinned.

“I’m sure one of you is Chief Kable, and I’m going to guess it’s you,” he said, pointing a finger at Gerhart.
 

Gerhart smiled and stepped around the desk to shake hands with the man. “Good guess. You must be Maybury.”

He led Archie Maybury into the office and pointed to a chair. “Interesting piece of transportation you drive,” he observed. “Appropriate, to say the least.”

“Don’t attach any social or commercial significance to it,” Maybury said. “It was the biggest thing we could get for twelve hundred bucks. We haul a lot of stuff around.” He fished in a pocket, retrieved a wrinkled stick of gum, stared at it for a moment, unwrapped it and stuffed it into his mouth. “Francesca told us you have a problem. Want to tell me about it?”

Ford left to oversee the day’s activities as Gerhart and Maybury settled down across from each other at Gerhart’s desk. It took the Chief twenty minutes to outline the problems of the last few weeks. When he finished, Maybury sat and thought for a moment, then he raised his eyebrows and looked directly at Gerhart.

“You know,” he said, “except for Francesca, you don’t have a logical leg to stand on.”
 

Gerhart frowned and sat straight up in his chair.

Maybury grinned brightly and held both hands in front of him, palms toward the Chief. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’d be more skeptical if there were twelve little old ladies who all saw their dear, departed husbands. In the first place, Francesca is unique. When she speaks, we listen. Second, whatever is going on here is very subtle, in spite of all the weird happenings. But, as you pointed out, these episodes seem to be escalating. Tell you what. First thing I want to do is snoop. Incidents like those you’re experiencing are usually caused by something that happened in the past. How’s your local library?”

“About what you’d expect in a town this size. You might have better luck up in Perry, if you’re going for local history, but the best bet is Tallahassee. Have you got a motel room yet?”

“Nope.”

Gerhart reached for the phone. “Let me get you a room. We’ll take care of it. Keep track of your expenses and we’ll take care of those, too. Just don’t eat too much pheasant under glass. The town budget won’t stand it.”

“No problem,” Maybury said, standing. “I’ll get started. Just point me toward the motel so I’ll know where to sleep.”

When Francesca deVouziers had visited Gerhart three days earlier, first she dropped her bombshell, then offered assistance. She explained her “gift,” as she called it, then promised to leave if Gerhart wasn’t buying. He stared at her for a moment, weighing her sincerity. Then, inexplicably, a vision of a pilotless vacuum cleaner in Roberta Valentine’s living room flashed through his mind. “Go on, Ms. DeVouziers, I’m listening.”

She explained about the psychological beating she had suffered at the mall and how she knew that something evil was infecting it. Then she leaned back and waited while Gerhart worked to absorb what she had told him. Finally, he nodded his head.

“I believe you. I’m not sure why, exactly, but there is something going on. There have been too many accidents and strange happenings. They can’t all be coincidences.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll appreciate any help you can give me. They didn’t teach us anything about this sort of crime at the Academy.” He leaned back and smiled, trying to make a joke out of it. Francesca read between the lines. This policeman was worried.

“I can’t do anything, personally. This is way out of my league. But I know a psychic research group that may be able to help.”

“Are you staying in Trinidad long?”

Francesca shivered slightly. “No. I don’t think I can stand another encounter like the one I had. I was just passing through anyway.” She stood and reached a slender hand across the desk.

Gerhart stood and shook the hand. “Ms. DeVouziers, I appreciate you taking the time to come in. I had no idea where to start.”

Francesca smiled brightly, showing perfect teeth. “It’s been a pleasure. You’re one of the few people who hasn’t laughed in my face the first time I mention my gift. I’ll see if I can reach my friends for you. Good luck.”

Maurice Rouen called Gerhart the next day.

“Francesca deVouziers said you are having some sort of problem down there.”

“You could say that,” Gerhart answered. “She told me you were an expert on…things.”

There was a chuckle on the other end of the line, then Rouen laughed aloud. “Things. I like that. Nobody wants to say ghosts or spirits or demons. Things. Got to remember that. So, what’s happening, Chief Kable? It is Chief, right?”

“Yeah. Here’s the picture.”

Gerhart spent five minutes outlining the disturbances in the mall. When he was finished Rouen was silent for a moment.

“Okay,” Rouen said. “We’re in a Winnebago right now, somewhere between Great Falls, Montana and the North Dakota border. Just a second. What? Oh. My wife says we just passed through Winnett. I still don’t know where we are. I’m going to call a buddy of mine who’s down around Meridian, Mississippi someplace. Name’s Archie Maybury. He should be wrapping things up there in a couple of days. I’ll see if he can’t run down and talk to you. Maybe he can get a handle on something.”

“Do you have people all over the country?”

“Yeah. All eight of us. We go where the action is. Just a bunch of fun loving folks, that’s us. Ha. My wife is making obscene hand gestures. Listen, Chief. We’re a nonprofit bunch. We run on a slim grant, donations and such. Do you think you could cover some of Archie’s expenses? Just the basics.”

“No problem. I’ll think of a way to slip it past the board.”

“Great. I’ll give him your number and you guys can make the arrangements.”

“Mr. Rouen, I appreciate the help.”

“Call me Maurice. We ain’t helped, yet. But you’re welcome.”

Maybury returned two days later. He wasn’t smiling. “I couldn’t find a damn thing,” he said with a shake of his head. “I don’t get it. Usually, it doesn’t take any time at all. There’ll be an ax murder, or an Indian mound, or a massacre, something in the past that I can sink my teeth into. I never researched anyplace as fast as I did Trinidad. I looked through the newspaper morgues and the libraries. I dug through a lot of stuff at the library in Tallahassee. Man, do they have stuff to dig through! But near as I can find out, there weren’t any Indians around here to speak of. They were all farther south or up north. This place is more devoid of human history than anywhere I’ve ever been.”

Gerhart leaned back in his chair. “So, what do we do now?”

Maybury spread his arms, palms up. “Now that I’ve got a little background information, let’s take a look at this mall of yours. I don’t like to go into a location cold.”

Maybury drove the old Cadillac around behind the mall and stopped near the service entrance to the food court. He and Gerhart climbed out and Maybury went to the rear door of the hearse, opened it and rummaged about in the back of the vehicle.

“What’s all that stuff?” Gerhart wanted to know.

“Mostly modified electronic surveillance equipment of various types. I’ve also got a gas powered generator so I can run it out in the boonies.”

He fished a black box the size of a large car battery out from under an old blanket. It had three dials and a pair of meters on one side, a jack with a set of headphones on the top and an electric cord that came out of the back. Maybury and Gerhart stepped through the door into the food court storeroom. Maybury found a wall socket and plugged the box in. Then he slipped the headphones on and flipped a switch.

Archie Maybury screamed and yanked the headphones off. Gerhart gaped at him with surprise. Maybury grimaced and rubbed both ears with the palms of his hands. Finally he took a deep breath and looked at Gerhart.

“Wow. My ears are still ringing.”

Gerhart closed his mouth and swallowed. “What happened?”

“This is sort of like a decibel meter,” Maybury said, pointing to his box. “Psychic energy is similar to brain waves. It generates tiny amounts of electricity. But the amount is so small you can’t pick it up with commercial equipment. That’s why we have to make our own. Usually, when I first turn this on, I don’t get anything. It has to be tuned like an old short-wave radio. That’s what the knobs and meters are for. But, man! There’s something here, all right. I’ve never heard the receiver scream that way.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Maybury said, “that whatever is in here is stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced. I don’t like it. I think I’d better call Maurice.”
 

Byron Skjelgaard chewed a large hunk of cheeseburger and stared through the big plate glass window at the street outside. He wished he was already in Atlanta. It was just too damn hot and humid down here, and the story he was chasing had dried up and blown away like dandelion spore. He hoped with all his heart that the rumor about the Atlanta aliens was worth the drive. He really needed the money. He picked up his cup and slurped at the rest of the cold coffee.

When the lime green hearse with the big tailfins flashed across his line of vision, he sat motionless for a moment, wondering why it looked familiar. Then he jumped up, dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter next to his half-eaten cheeseburger and ran out the front door, leaving an astonished waitress holding the coffee pot tilted above Skjelgaard’s abandoned cup.

By the time he hit the sidewalk the hearse was gone. But Trinidad wasn’t that big. Skjelgaard leaped into his old Camaro and goosed it up the street as fast as he dared in the wake of the hearse. His haste was rewarded with a glimpse of the big vehicle as it turned into the parking lot at the mall. Now that his quarry was once more in sight, Skjelgaard took a deep breath and slowed to a legal speed. As he got closer he was able to make out the license plate. It was from Minnesota. Grinning broadly, Skjelgaard trundled along after the hearse at a good distance until it pulled up behind the mall. Then he whipped the Camaro into a parking space and settled down to see what would happen next.

Byron Skjelgaard liked to think of himself as a crafty and clever freelance investigative reporter. Most of those who knew him thought of him mostly by his initials—B.S. One of his former bosses had even gone so far as to dub him Skulldead. Fortunately, the nickname didn’t get out. Skjelgaard’s grandfather was the founder of the only Danish language newspaper in the Midwest. The paper gained quite a following in the waning days of the 19
^th
century. But by 1920, most of the Danish speaking population didn’t any more, so Anders Skjelgaard switched to English. But the subscriptions dwindled anyway so Anders finally threw in the towel. His son, Walter, had to find a job elsewhere. He went to work for the
St. Louis Globe-Democrat
and ultimately gained a reputation as a talented newspaperman, one with integrity. Byron watched his father, Walter, reap the benefits of his talent and yearned to be just like him. But he simply didn’t have the proper mental equipment.

Byron Skjelgaard was fired first from the
Globe-Democrat
, where he was hired on the strength of his father’s performance, then in rapid succession from the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
and the
Chicago Tribune
. He tried the
Kankakee Journal
in Illinois, the
Southeast Missourian
in Cape Girardeau and a series of Corn Belt locals in central Iowa. One afternoon as he sat in a bar and wondered how to pay the next month’s rent he heard two of the other patrons discuss a lad of eight or nine who had become locked in an abandoned refrigerator for several hours. While waiting to be rescued, the boy had found a sealed jar of pickled pigs feet sitting next to him in the fridge. He tried eating one and deemed it unfit for human consumption just as his frightened mother opened the door and hauled him out.

Byron Skjelgaard penned the story of the youth, labeled it “Boy Trapped in Refrigerator—Eats Foot” and sent it off to one of the supermarket tabloids. Nobody was more surprised than Skjelgaard when a check arrived by return mail along with a letter requesting more of the same. Skjelgaard had found his niche in life.

Skjelgaard definitely had a nose for weird news. He had stumbled across the lime-green hearse several years earlier in Madison, Wisconsin where it was parked in front of a Victorian mansion. He called in a favor from a member of the Wisconsin Highway Patrol and discovered the vehicle was owned by a group of psychic researchers. Although he didn’t find a story that time, Skjelgaard figured people in such an unorthodox line of work would ultimately be good for something. He filed the description of the hearse away in his catchall brain for future reference. Considering what his job paid, Skjelgaard couldn’t afford to forget anything.